Bailiff v. Banker

I have to bury these people, says the Bailiff.

He puts his hands on his hips. He spits. He thinks. He thinks of the Bandit. He thinks of the Balloonist. He thinks of the Baker. He thinks of the Baker's cat's eye. He thinks of cat eyes. He thinks of cats. He thinks of hats. He thinks of stovepipe hats. He thinks of stoves. He thinks of hellfire melting the writhing bodies of the eternal damned.

He decides to build a pyre.

He pockets the Artist's matches, takes the Attorney's tan briefcase - heavy with the book of law and legal drafts - to a spot just thirty feet southeast from the mass of the dead by the northern fence. He looks at the crows, the crows look at him.

He drops the briefcase then walks to the east timber fence. Using his stout fury, he rips the timber slats from the fence. Rips and rips and rips. Until there's a sufficient pile of timber. He moves the timber to where he set down the briefcase. After time he builds a makeshift pyre. With pages from the book of law and the legal drafts, and up using six matches, he lights the pyre.

The Banker arrives. Greying temples, sculpted jowls, unwavering gaze. Black overcoat, pinstripe suit, blue and white striped tie. He walks to the Bailiff.

What's this about here? asks the Banker.

The Bailiff explains.

The Banker thinks. He nods, takes off his overcoat, takes off his jacket, and rolls up his sleeves. They walk to the bodies. The crows scatter, flying or hopping away with satisfied insouciance. The two men set about carrying off the light, mostly-eaten bodies of Accountant, the Acrobat, the Actor, the Actuary, the Administrator, the Advocate, the Aerospace Engineer, the Agent, the Agronomist, the Air Traffic Controller, the Alchemist, and the Ambassador.

The clothes and dried flesh catch quickly. The smell is horrendous. Acrid, nauseating, sweet. The two men vomit until they can't vomit any more.

Once these are burnt to mostly skull and bone, they tear down more timber and move on to more bodies.

They throw in those bodies that are still decomposing, half-eaten: the bodies of the Anesthesiologist, the Analyst, the Animal Trainer, the Airman, the Anthropologist, the Arborist, the Archbi -

Should we burn this Archbishop? asks the Bailiff.

What's he gonna say if we do? asks the Banker.

They throw on the body of the Archbishop, the Archer, the Archaeologist, the Architect, the Archivist and the Armorer.

Throughout this work, the two men speak:

Sir, says the man in a nixonian tone, I've banked in Boston and New York. Banked in Charlotte and Los Angeles. Banked in Houston in the 70s. Miami in the 80s. Banked internationally. Buenos Aires. Geneva, Switzerland. London, Pittsburgh, Tacoma, Toronto, Hong Kong, Cape Town, Madras, Pago Pago. Banked the Isle of Wight. Across the Caribbean from Grand Bahama to the Turks and Caicos. I've banked every city I've known. Athens? Banked it. Milan? Two deals brokered with issuers of industrial automotive debt instruments. Ask me about Stockholm.

What about Stockholm?

Biggest deal our bank had seen out of Scandinavia. I made it happen. That's right, the man before you.

That's something.

That's banking. That's old fashioned banking. Deal-making. How'd'ya do, let's buy us a hooker and let's made a deal. Yes, I come from the original mold. Yankee thrift, Yankee heft. Strong shake, strong eye, strong chin. You get me?

I sure do.

Well good. I'm glad to help these dead with you. I'm a man of the people, you understand. I'm not above you. Monetarily, maybe. Do I wear black tie and know how to use a finger bowl? Sure. Attractive wife? Better believe it. Four days in the gym? I'll say so. One kid in Williams, the other at Yale? Yes, and I'm proud of it. But does that make me somehow superior to men like you? Good men of the earth? Well I say no. I say you have just as good a shot as I. How about that for a mindset, huh?

It's a good one.

It's what makes this country run, sir. No, I'm not ashamed to call you sir. You seem like a good man, good with his hands, good ideas. Burning bodies. Now that's not to say it's something I wouldn't have through up, but you thought it up first and I'm not less of a man to sit sullen because one man hit the spike before it was my turn to pitch the shoe. I'll roll up the sleeves, I'll grease the elbow. Look at me know. How do you like me, now?

I like you just fine.

I think we're pals. You a family man? You know golf? Answer the second question first.

I think we're as done for now.

This was true. They fire had calmed. The new bodies heaped didn't catch like the earlier bodies. They smoldered, roasting atop coals. A worse smell couldn't be described. It clung to their clothes, to their skin.

We did an exemplary job here. First rate work, says the Banker.

They get the pistols and take the field, standing ten paces apart.

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.

Bailiff v. Bandit

Well of all the people I'd never expect to see, says the Bailiff, gun drawn.

The Bandit holds his hands up. Now hold on there, Bailiff, says the Bandit. Just hold on. I'm unarmed.

When did you bust out of prison? Last week?

I came here for a fair duel, Bailiff. I ain't gonna stand here and be talked to like a common criminal. We're two men alike here. You know that. It's the Unspoken Rules of the Duel.

The Bailiff frowns. He lowers his gun.

I think I'd like to chose my weapon now if you don't mind, Bailiff.

The Bailiff spits. Suit yourself, he says. It's over by the table.

The Bandit, a brown-eyed man of unremarkable appearance, of average build walks to the table. He takes up a pistol. He surveys the setting. Looks like hell around here, says the Bandit. How many dead you kill over by the fence there, Bailiff?

Don't mind about who I've killed or who I haven't. Done well for myself so far.

Surprised you know how to shoot at all. Look at those shaking hands. The Bandit smiles, leans back against the oak. Just look, he says. Middle-aged, fat, a drunk. You got kids?

The Bailiff spits. Yeah I got kids. What's it to you?

I feel bad for your kids.

The Bailiff frowns. You got kids, Bandit?

Yeah I got kids, thanks, the Bandit says. He scowls. Wanna see pictures?

The Bailiff squints. I'd love to, he says.

They show each other wallet-sized pictures of their children.

Your daughter's grown so much since I last seen her, says the Bandit.

And yours, I'll tell ya, is a real gem of a girl.

She is, says the Bandit. I say mine girl's the sweeter of the two, he adds, eyeing the Bailiff.

Maybe, says the Bailiff through clenched teeth, they're both sweet in their own particular way. Each equalling each other in sweetness, either by sweetness in looks, sweetness in our regard for them, or sweetness in their general demeanor.

Well said, Bailiff, says the Bandit.

Any father would say the same, he says. Now I'm going to kill you.

Yes sir, I think I've had just about enough of your face.

They take their places out on the field, ten paces apart.

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.

Bailiff v. Balloonist

Both pistols tucked under his belt, the Bailiff relocates the body of the Baker. Then walks west down the fence line. He passes the bodies of the Animator and Background Artist. He walks to the point closest to the Aviator's overturned Sopwith Camel, lying partially dismantled on the turned black soil. A filthy-looking boy, head covered in a brown tuque, swaddled in an oversized barn coat squats beside the skeletal fuselage. Eating something from his mittens. Quickly, like a squirrel. When the boy sees the Bailiff he shoves the food into his coat pocket and gazes, eyes dull and feral.

Hey son! shouts the Bailiff. Have a shovel you can spare?

The boy turns away. Two men emerge from the far end of the plane. One fat, one thin. Their features are vague, yet their faces and hands clearly show greasy and oil-stained. The thin man grabs the boy roughly by the back of the coat and hefts him to his feet. The three walk behind the plane, out of sight.

In the distance, flying south on the northern currents, a spec appears. The Bailiff squints. Rubs his eyes, spits, and squints again. He waits as the spec nears. A balloon of white and blue fabric. Beneath not a basket but a wood structure, a small red tool shed.

He watches as the balloon gracefully glides closer, ever lower. It seems on target to land in the field. But at the last moment, just a hundred meters from the northern fence, a sudden gust from the west sends the shed swiveling. The balloon's pushed east, over the northeast tip of the fence and into the forest. It disappears from sight just before the sound of cracking branches, splintering timber. The great thump - then whoosh of a punctured air bladder.

The Bailiff rushes as fast as his stout little frame'll carry him to the eastern timber fence. He puts one foot on the timber and peers into the woodland. Inscrutable shade, thick brown bramble, dense foliage. Hello? he says. He hears a fall. A great umphf. Then steps over crisp leaves.

The Balloonist, a gangly ill-kept in denim overalls, walks from forest. He holds his arm, broken in two places, bone showing.

The Bailiff helps him over the fence, then to the oak. He sits at the base of the tree.

Jesus pal, says the Bailiff, you look like you need a doctor.

I think I can still fight, says the Balloonist. Just my left arm's broken, eh? He demonstrates. It's broken good. Let's fight, he says, and then I'll put up right in a sling.

Well fine, says the Bailiff. You want me to mark your job down? The Bailiff indicates the List of the Dead. The Balloonist shrugs. The Bailiff writes 'baloonist'. After the Bailiff helps him to his feet, the Balloonist sees the error but is too week to care.

They take their place out on the field, standing ten paces apart.

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.

Bailiff v. Baker

The Bailiff, unsure of what exactly transpired, tucks both pistols under his belt (very tight fit) and walks over to the fence, near where the Background Artist had risen. He sees the mangled body of the Animator. Not knowing why, but knowing it the right thing to do, he returns to the field and drags the Background Artist's body to lay alongside the body of the Animator.

Someone should really bury these people, he says. He looks around. He spits, then returns to the oak.

The Baker arrives. He's a tall young man with sandy hair, a lantern jaw. He wears stained sweatpants, sneakers, a thick winter coat. Cigarette stains mark his left hand. Tattoo of on base of his neck reads: shantih shantih shantih.

This is gonna be tough, says the Baker. I can only see out of one eye.

The Bailiff asks why.

The Baker explains. As a child he suffered slingshot backfire. The tubing snapped, striking his eye, lacerating his pupil. If you have a lighter you can see, says the Baker. It looks like a cat's eye. The Bailiff takes the matches sitting on the table and strikes one. He holds it close to the Baker's face and stands on tip-toe. Sure enough: a cat's eye.

You can't see anything out of it?

Nah. Blurry. A fog.

The Baker pantomimes the actions of the accident, grasping at his eye, shrieking in mock pain. They both laugh.

Say, says the Bailiff, you don't have drink on you, do you?

The Baker doesn't. The Bailiff nods.

The Bailiff asks if he'd like to chose pistols. The Baker choses his, the Bailiff takes the other.

I think we need to write our jobs on the paper here, says the Bailiff, pointing to the List of the Dead. The Bailiff takes up the pencil and writes his job. The Baker follows suit. The Bailiff misspelled bailiff but the Baker says nothing.

They walk out to the field. They stand ten paces apart.

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.

Background Artist v. Bailiff

The Background Artist returns to where she left the body of the Aviator. She musters enough strength to drag him the rest of the way to the fence. There, pinching her nose, she looks over the clustered bodies of the dead and decomposing. She stops at the sight of the swollen, partially eaten Animator. Staggers in disbelief.

She clothes her hands in the Actor's English hunting jacket (lying discarded apart from the bodies) and hefts the Animator's body from the others. Weeping uncontrollably, she strokes the Animator's eye-less face and hunk-torn cheeks and her six-fingered hand and drags her west along the fence, half-way between the pile of bodies and the road.

There she sits for a long while, crying and occasionally punching the ground before her.

The Bailiff walks onto the field from the road. He's a short barrel of a man. Tight buzzcut, broad shoulders, sunken eyes, bulging rose-kissed nose, swollen as if stung by wasps. He walks to the oak. Seeing no one, he spits. Looks around. Starts playing with one of the revolvers on the table. Spinning the chamber, looking down the barrel, testing the firing pin.

The Background Artist falls asleep next to the Animator.

The Bailiff spends an hour practicing his quick-draw. Ba-hey! he says each time he draws. Bang!

Finally he bores. He tucks the pistol under his tight-fitting polyester pants and shambles through the snow-spotted grass. He walks to the creek and regards the creek. He walks to the cairn and regards the cairn. He walks to the bodies of the dead and regards the bodies of the dead. Then he looks out to the northern field and regards the northern field, especially the ragged figures in the distance that work, dismantling the Aviator's Sopwith Camel.

He turns away. Once more - the quick-draw: Ba-hey! he shouts. Bang!

This wakes the Background Artist. She gets to her feet and and wipes her tears and stomps over to the oak. The Bailiff spots her and walks after.

Hey, says the Bailiff. He catches up to her as she writes 'animator + background artist' on the List of Dead. She takes a pistol and walks to the field. Hey, he says.

Let's just shoot! she cries.

The Bailiff shrugs. He takes the field. They stand ten paces apart.

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.